


Breathless

by MDN (Nilenium)



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Choking, Dark, Disturbing Themes, Dominance, F/M, Nude Modeling, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oneshot, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:46:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2836925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nilenium/pseuds/MDN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MadaSaku AU. The brush strokes the canvas just like his fingers itch to touch her silky skin. Dark and disturbing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathless

It's in the urgency that fills him as he returns to the mansion, in the hurried steps he makes for the makeshift art studio he arranged just for this special purpose, in the impatient tug at his collar and loosening of his tie as he enters the big room, illuminated by the rows of large windows, which allow the sunlight to stream inside unhindered and bathe his goddess in its golden glow.

She's laying on her side, head propped on a crimson pillow and pink hair cascading down in short curls. Her arms and legs are positioned loosely, free and natural. She doesn't cover herself up and he remembers how long it took him to convince her of her beauty and make her gain confidence in her body, but she also doesn't show more than a teasing glimpse of her womanly petals. He stands in the doorway, as silent as a ghost. His breath is still so easily taken away by the sight of her bare form, just as it was when he undressed her for the first time. He drinks her in, the fair skin, glowing in the sun, his eyes lingering on the curves exposed to his greedy view, the apple-sized breasts he wants to taste, the thin waist he longs to put his arm around and the toned legs he yearns to stroke up and up until he reaches her blooming lotus.

He licks his dry lips, then strides to the other occupant of the room without making a sound. She notices the movement and lifts her eyes anyway, green and smoky with the eyeliner. She sends him a lazy smile, with a dose of cattiness, like she knows everything that's going through his head, under that long, wild mane of black hair and he surmises that she probably does – they've been together for so long, she must already recognize the mood he is in.

He stands behind the only other man in the room and looks at the fruits of his work. The man doesn't acknowledge him, so absorbed in his world of light and emptiness which he strives to fill with short, elegant and sometimes long and curving paintbrush strokes across the canvas, all in order to capture the vision of beauty lounging in the artistically rumpled sheets. And capture her, he did – down to the every single eyelash, even the small brown birthmarks on her left hip aren't forgotten. The painting's smile is as radiant as the real one and the man standing behind the artist feels pleased with his work.

He plans to wait in respect of this talent until the painter is done with the final touches but one glance at the rosette changes his mind. She is smirking at him, biting her lower lip as her hand cups her right breast and lifts it up. He inhales deeply and the lightning seems to have struck him when she pulls and rubs at her cerise pink nipples. He watches them darken and harden under her wicked ministrations and the sly look she sends him is more than he can handle at the moment.

“You can finish later,” he snaps at the artist who quickly stills his hand before he messes up the painting.

“It'll take only half an hour, Madara-sama,” he points out calmly, but Madara is beyond waiting any longer. He wants the pest out.

“Leave,” he commands with so much force it's almost like a bullet whizzing past the painter's head. The man doesn't question anymore, only puts the brush in the water before walking out swiftly.

The woman doesn't break the eye contact with Madara as he stalks to the bed. She rolls on her back and stretches out with a drawn out, little moan that drives him crazy with need. He stops at the bed, with one knee on the edge and starts snapping his shirt's buttons open, revealing the tight white undershirt that clings to his impressive pectorals. She licks her pointer and glides it down her neck and to the middle of her chest, while he throws off the shirt, still silent, though he doesn't really need to speak – his eyes say it all, predatory obsidian dark orbs that sweep over her, taking in every detail. He's a hungry lion and she's supposed to be his prey.

Except she isn't.

There's not a trace of apprehension in her clear green eyes as she enjoys the sight of him stripping before her, unashamedly admiring the way his muscles flex and shift beneath his skin when he lifts the undershirt over his head. Her gaze moves to the trail of dark hair going from his belly button into the slacks he's wearing and he methodically undoes his belt, unzips the pants and pulls them down. Still bent over, he gets rid of his socks and straightens up, clad only in his boxers and looming above her nude body. He reaches for the hem, but she stops him.

“Won't you kiss me first?” she asks in faux innocence, even as her one hand is hidden between her thighs, the wrist moving to the rhythm of her sensuous strokes working on her entrance.

Madara swallows and kneels on the bed again. He cups the side of her head and lowers his lips to her waiting ones. She's like the spring of water for his parched throat and he drinks her sweetness in without restraint. Soon he's straddling her body fully and a hand finally strokes the silkiness along her waist and under her bosom.

She returns the touch eagerly, her fingers splayed on his wide chest, then going up to grasp his shoulders; one hand entangles with the hair on his nape and she pulls on it until he lets up and she can breathe again, flushed and panting after the rigorous kiss, her cherry-red lips already bruising. Their eyes meet again, darkened with need and they collide again, weave with each other and mesh together.

Madara's kissing her throat, drowning in her intoxicating scent of fresh lilies and she massages his scalp and maps the powerful muscles of his back with her curious digits. He shudders in delight, stiffening in his boxers, then he goes after those creamy, pert mounds that have tantalized his senses since the moment he came in. She moans and gives him a light scratch down his spine when his mouth latches on her hard bud, sucking it in.

He devours her body, sets it ablaze with rough fingers, then nibbles on her hot flesh, tasting her and she replies by slithering her hand between them, under the material of his boxers and taking a hold of his lust-ridden member. Madara thrusts into her palm, instinctively seeking the pleasure and he groans when she squeezes him just right.

“Sa-kura...” he hisses out her name. It sounds like something between a plead and a command, but whichever it really is, she doesn't heed it anyway. She rubs him firmly, but so, so agonizingly slowly that he forgets about everything, blinded by the fulfillment dangling right before him. He groans her name again and bucks his hips, but to no avail. She likes to be cruel, she likes not to listen to him and just do whatever strikes her fancy. He would be infuriated with the disobedience but she strangles his flesh snake without remorse and he can't even think straight anymore.

“Come on, Madara,” she whispers, false understanding dripping off her tongue as she squeezes and strokes him unmercifully. “Come. Let it all out. I want you to come, baby.”

It takes a titanic effort for him to disregard her coaxing. He wrenches her hand away from his oversensitive manhood and pins it above her head. He's panting harshly as he regains control over himself, then he's leaning to her face and peers into the narrowed, cold green eyes.

“Nice try,” he growls, the rumble in his chest, pressed against her soft one, going through her too. “But you're not going to earn your upkeep with just your hand.”

Her lips purse unhappily and she averts her gaze, but he's done with her rebelliousness. He grips her chin and makes her look at him again. She shoots him an agitated glance, to which he responds with a cruel smirk.

“You're mine to do with as I please. You gave yourself up to me. You rescinded all your rights to your body when you came to me and begged for my help,” he reminds her and she shakes her head and struggles against his strong hold, batting her free hand on his solid body without doing any real damage.

“No,” she says. “Please, stop.”

But he pins that arm too and continues, enunciating every word. “You sold yourself to me, Sakura. Remember how pathetic you were before? You had nothing, just a nice voice and a meaningless award from a TV show. No one wanted to buy your little love songs anymore. I didn't, too,” he admits unrepentantly. “I just wanted you.”

“Madara, please...”

“Shh, I'm talking now.” He squeezes her wrists punishingly and she quiets down. “You were so desperate, Sakura. You thought that winning a stupid singing contest was going to make your career. So naïve of you. You had no forethought, you just threw away all your money on useless things and thought everything would be alright because you were famous. But it didn't work out so well for you, did it? Before you knew it, you were neck deep into debt and with no way to pay it off.”

“Can... can you get to the point?” she asks tremulously, her eyes taking a wet sheen of suppressed tears.

“I'm almost there,” he assures. “You had nowhere to go, close to ending your career despite your so hard-earned fame and all the praise from the critics. So you went to me – a man twice your age – and you gave yourself to me in exchange for money. At least your price wasn't too small, though for me it was still nothing more than a sneeze,” he comments, trampling all over her pride and reveling in the damp, hateful look she gives him. It's honest and it excites his blood, stirring his cock up again when he thinks of all the ways he can make this look turn into one of lust and pleasure, directed solely at him.

Madara grinds himself against her abdomen and she jolts under him. He puts a knee between her legs, then the other, forcing her to spread her thighs to accommodate him.

“Do you understand, Sakura?” he rasps into her ear as he humps her through the fabric of his boxers. “I own you. And I will decide how I'm going to use this beautiful body of yours to my greatest satisfaction, not you. And...” he moans, before continuing in the most menacing whisper, a threat and a promise, “I'm not going to be gentle.”

Something breaks again in her soul, taking a form of a little tear, a drop of salty, warm water running down her cheek, but even the symbol of her pain isn't her own anymore as Madara leans to her face and licks it off slowly.

“It's too late to cry,” he mocks her, the amused quirk of his lips maddening. All she wants at the moment is to wipe it off his face with her nails, sink them in his eyes and scratch them out until he screams and the thick blood gushes out to cover her hands. But she can only see it in her fantasies, never make it true. She lacks the ability to carry out her wish and a sob of helplessness tears out of her throat. His smirk doesn't leave, it only widens as he reads her dark thoughts perfectly.

Madara releases her arms and pulls away, sitting on his knees and looking down at her with an unbearable leer. Sakura rubs her wrists gingerly to restore the circulation even as the finger-shaped bruises appear on the lily white skin.

“Sakura,” he calls her name and she sees he's already taken off the boxers. Despite herself, her body is still drawn to him, reacting with a dripping arousal to the animal magnetism he exudes as he reclines against the headboard, his relaxed posture oozing overwhelming confidence. Her gaze wanders down to the throbbing shaft and she remembers how hot and big it felt in her grasp when she tried to get rid of it and spare herself the pain of being split in two.

“Ride me,” he says sultrily.

A violent shudder goes through her at the lewd command, her nipples puckering and core constricting with a physical need and she absolutely hates this, hates herself for wanting him so much, for bending to his will and she hates him for never giving her a choice. The vitriol in her eyes makes her look like a vengeful goddess as she rises on all fours and crawls onto his lap. He doesn't touch her when she arranges herself to straddle him, then takes his stiff member in one hand and puts it to her moist entrance. His impossibly black eyes shine with a dark excitement. He enjoys the power he has over her, the spite she gives him in return when she drops her obedient act.

Sakura hesitates slightly. She takes a small breath, undecided and perched on the precipice and he's about to say something to prod her to compliance, but it's not really needed. She steels herself and pushes down, sliding onto him with a strangled moan until she's seated onto him fully. Madara groans too, momentarily overwhelmed by the wet heat enveloping him so snugly.

“Good,” he hisses out. “Go on, ride me, Sakura. Fuck me as much as you'd like.” His voice is hoarse and vibrating with desire that resonates within her very core.

Sakura begins an uneven rhythm, rocking her hips while all she thinks of is this new game of his. She braces herself on his shoulders and goes harder on him, the pleasure blooming deep inside in every place she manages to reach and strike. Madara observes her gyrating with a glint in his heavy-lidded eyes, then folds his arms behind his head, still refusing to touch her. It riles her up even more and she grinds onto him viciously, her hands sliding up and down his wide chest, thumbs swirling on the flat nipples, which elicits a groan and finally an upwards thrust that stretches her out more. To her satisfaction, he doesn't stop with a token move, instead keeping pace with her as she slams down on his lap.

Madara moans without restraint and her blood sings in triumph. She grins as she rides him wildly, loving the control she's gained over the proud man. Where is his hubris now? He shouldn't have let her on top and not expect her to take advantage of it.

“Are you close?” she gasps out a question, her gaze riveted to his bare neck.

“Yesss,” he replies, his eyes closed, the Adam's apple bobbing as he speaks. Her hands stroke up his chest and enclose his throat loosely. Then, she lunges down her body and squeezes the slim fingers with ferocity and strength no one would ever expect of her. Madara's eyes snap open when the air supply is cut off from him, but he's not panicked. He doesn't struggle in the least, he just stares at her hard, goading her on, the ecstatic gleam in his eyes driving her further into the insanity. She snarls in rapture, pink hair flying around while she abandons all reason, lost in the feeling. Her body tenses abruptly and clenches hard on his cock, on his neck, and she chokes him passionately, her walls fluttering around him in bliss as the big ball of warmth explodes in her belly, flooding her with power.

She's drifting down from her high when her grip slackens and Madara pries her hands off his neck, coughing and gasping for breath while she recovers. Sakura rests her head against his shoulder, drained from the force of her climax, feeling both disappointment and relief that the bastard is still alive. But she left on his throat her imprints and shallow scrapes from her nails, which now fill with blood, dripping down and making long thin red lines, so she's also content because she's hurt him too. Her eyelids weigh a ton and all she wants is to take a nap.

Then, a scratchy growl blows into her ear, “My turn.”

It's like being shocked by a running current, her eyes snap wide open, all the sleepiness leaving her instantly, but it's already too late for her to escape. Madara throws her down on her back, restrains her thin wrists with just one hand effortlessly, then pulls her legs apart and brutally rams inside. Sakura gasps, more from surprise than any kind of pain. Teeth gritted, she braces herself for more of his savagery, but nothing can prepare her for his other hand encircling her swan-like neck. Suddenly, she's hyper aware of everything, the throbbing length shoving inside her, the maniacal glint in his dark eyes and the way he menacingly thumbs her jumping pulse point. The vulnerability is back, her heart pounds and palpitates at the perceived threat, green eyes wide and pleading as she looks up at him.

“Please, don't...” she murmurs but he cuts her off with a gentle squeeze.

“Don't speak,” he orders. He takes her roughly, unforgivingly and she knows she will have trouble walking after he's done. Every powerful snap of his hips rattles her pelvis, so she tilts her lower half to better receive him and reduce the stress on her body. The springs in the bed squeak loudly under them, Sakura wriggles futilely and Madara pistons into her. When he lets go of her wrists, she immediately grabs his arm and scratches, trying to get it off her delicate throat, but it's no use. He just smirks deviously and tightens his hold a bit. She has no choice but to move her hands to his forearms and dig in her nails while he seeks his satisfaction, battering her relentlessly.

His breath is heavy when he bends to her face, the long dark hair falling in waves around them; he surrounds her, cages her, he's all over and inside and she can barely breathe, her intakes small, shallow and rapid. He looks her dead in the eye, amused.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Sakura?” he asks.

“N-No...”

“But you're soaked,” he points out smugly and surges forward, hitting precisely that spot that makes her toes curl. Sakura moans as her walls close around him on reflex.

Madara licks her upper lip, then the lower, his thrusts getting slower but much harder and deeper, though her spilling slickness encompasses him thoroughly, easing the movement. He tongues her porcelain, flushed skin to her ear.

“Murder gets you off, doesn't it? Seeing a man writhe beneath you like a worm when you take him arouses you. You love the feeling of control, to decide about life and death...” he whispers.

She wants to protest, to call him a filthy liar, but his words heat her up and her inner muscles clench, to which he gives her a smug look. One hand grabs her hip and hikes her leg higher, so he can attack her core at a new angle, to which she responds with more strained whimpers.

“How does it feel to be on the receiving end? I can finish you, wring your thin neck and bury the corpse in the middle of my grounds in the north. It would be so easy to hide.” He lifts his head to look her in the eye again. He smiles eerily.

She's pale, trembling under his touch and so impossibly wet he wants to groan out loud.

“No one would even miss you. Everyone left you – family, friends, a boyfriend. You have only me and I can do with you whatever I wish,” he says and a tear rolls down her cheek. Her eyelashes are wet and stuck to each other, the green in her eyes lush and even more beautiful, like a meadow after a spring rain. But he can still glimpse a spark of anger that won't be extinguished. It excites him, his desire for her inflamed further. He doesn't hold back anymore.

Madara picks up his pace and pounds her slender body into the mattress, slaking his lust. He's insatiable, a beast in a man's skin, a demon defiling his victim. His grip crushes her windpipe as he wrings every bit of pleasure out of her vulnerable body and she chokes, her nails carving deep gouges on his arms and back, wherever she can reach. The pain rouses him even more, it spurns him to deliver the final blow, to finish her.

“You're mine!” he snarls into her face and rams into her vice-like core before he bursts. He sees stars, his vision explodes into shiny fragments of light on the dark velvet of space and there's a noise in the background. It sounds like screaming.

It's his.

He returns to his senses relatively quickly, as he still feels her inner convulsions. Finally, he lets go of her bruised throat and rolls off her to the side. Temporarily sated, Madara watches her spasmodically coughing and gasping for breath. He thinks of her transformation – from picture-perfect smiles and flawless skin to hateful looks and contusions blooming all over her body like splashes of dark paint – and he feels a sense of accomplishment. He's the only one who sees her like this, the only one who can bring out her true colours. In a way, he's a much better artist than the man he hired to paint her portrait.

Sakura turns and looks at him wearily.

“You could have killed me,” she accuses in a very scratchy voice.

Madara shrugs. “You could have killed me first.” He opens his arms and after a moment of consideration she accepts his offer and lays with her back to him. He slings one arm over her waist loosely, but doesn't initiate more contact.

They lapse into a long silence and he's almost asleep when Sakura murmurs softly, but with an edge of a promise.

“Maybe I will kill you, one day.”

A smirk comes back full force, but he doesn't let her know he heard anything.

She's his to cherish, to hold, to possess and to destroy, but without that spark she would be completely worthless. And despite this, he wants all the more to see how far he will need to go to finally break her. Or will she murder him first?

Madara is very eager to find out.

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know your thoughts about the story.


End file.
